Waiting as the cymbal’s tremble
moves from crash to dissipation,
waiting in the space defined
by its detonation,
waiting to see where I’ll find myself
once the sound has settled

I could go on, then, as if
my inner membranes had not arrested their normal breathing
as they reverberated.
I could make a big story about it,
a problem,  a set of things
that need redress

Or I could let the silence become attuned,
let it deepen,
go with it to the primal order,
align with trees, and night, and stone,
and seek the sight of stars.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 26, 2023